


21:21, a few universes to the left

by florencedrunk (spokenitalics)



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Catholic Imagery, First Kiss, FraMartino Lives, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 00:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spokenitalics/pseuds/florencedrunk
Summary: "Because he's in pain," Martino says. Those are Francesco's words, or what he remembers of them. "But pain and pleasure are not that different, if you think about it.""And do you?" Francesco asks, moving closer. "Think about it, I mean."





	21:21, a few universes to the left

**Author's Note:**

> **Update 14/11/18:** I changed Niccolò's name to Francesco, since he's practically an OC. It was either this or deleting the whole work, and I actually like it a lot, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Martino has no idea what Hell looks like, but this party must come really close: the music is too loud, the neon lights make his head hurt, and he could swear his mask is actively trying to suffocate him. Also, he's spent the last hour or so avoiding Emma, which is why he can't take his mask off, and why he's currently hiding behind a bunch of giggling fifteen-year-olds.

The one thing giving him comfort — and he's trying really hard not to think why that is — is that on the other side of the room, beyond the crowd of drunk dancers, Francesco and Maddalena are in the middle of a shouting match.

He can't hear what they're saying, with the music and all, but he's surprised no one else seems to be noticing the very angry angel yelling at God with one raised finger, or the fact that, every time the angel stops to breathe, God doesn't miss the opportunity to yell back at her.

It goes on for a couple of minutes until Maddalena storms off. She's crying, maybe. Martino would very much like to say he feels bad about her, but the truth is that he has more important things to think about. Namely, the fact that Francesco seems to have spotted him, and is now walking right in his direction.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He can't do this.

He could run. That sounds reasonable. Sure, it would sound even more reasonable if the whole point of coming to this party wasn't that Francesco was also here, but whatever. He needs an excuse. He could say Giovanni needs his help. That's not too big a stretch. But where is Giovanni?

He looks away from Francesco and searches for his friend in the crowd. It takes him a moment, but there he is, next to—

Next to Eva. Or, well, all over her. And vice versa.

They're making out.

That's karma for you.

Okay, new plan: he's not going to run. Francesco just wants to talk, probably. They've done that before, and nothing's happened. Nothing bad. Nothing good. And, you know, maybe he's not even walking towards him. Maybe he's looking for the bathroom. And Martino's still wearing the mask, so maybe Francesco doesn't even—

"What time is it?" Francesco asks, suddenly next to him. (That was fast.  Did he jog over here?)

He takes a look at his phone. "21:21."

Francesco considers the answer for a moment. "Wanna go for a walk?" he asks, and he's gone before Martino can even begin to form an answer.

He follows him outside — of course he does — and they walk.

"Did something happen?" Martino asks after a few minutes of silence.

"Nothing happened," Francesco answers, smiling. He's always smiling, isn't he?

"Why did we leave, then?"

"Music was too loud."

"Okay."

"Okay." Another smile.

They don't talk about Maddalena, or about stupid childhood nicknames, or about finding a good place to smoke. They don't talk about anything at all, and it feels way nicer than it should. The streets are deserted and they're alone and they're just walking. Just existing one next to the other. Just chilling.

Martino takes a deep breath, just because he's finally calm enough to remember how to do that. The cold air fills his lungs, and his bones answer by vibrating under his skin. He really should've brought his coat with him.

"You're cold," Francesco says. He sounds actually worried. Martino adds that to the list of things to try not to think about.

"I'm not."

"You can say if you are."

"I'm not."

Francesco lets out a soft chuckle and turns left into an alley, stopping for a second to be sure Martino is following him. They emerge into another street and then walk alongside it until they reach a church.

It's an old thing, smallish and yellowish and crumbling here and there. Francesco goes straight to a small door on the right and starts pushing it.

"I was baptized here," he says when Martino reaches him, as if that explained anything. "I know the priest."

"And he's okay with us breaking and entering?"

"He leaves this door open in case anyone needs a place to stay during the night."

"Then why are you trying to break in?"

"Because you're cold—"

"I'm not cold."

"And we're not breaking in," he says as the door swings open. "See? It's an old door. The wood is a bit warped, but it was open."

It's definitely warmer inside, but also almost completely dark. There are a few candles burning next to the altar, but Martino has to turn on the torch on his phone to prevent himself from tripping over something. Francesco, on the other hand, seems to know his way around.

"Do you know who this is?" he asks Martino, stopping under an archway.

Martino looks up, pointing his torch at the wall. There's a man looking down at him. He's very young, mostly naked, and tied up to a column. There are arrows piercing his chest and his neck and his legs, each wound letting out a stream of gleaming red blood. But his face... he looks peaceful. Not resigned to his fate, not oblivious to his pain, just peaceful.

"He's Saint Sebastian," he answers. He's seen this painting before, in a video that was the first result when he googled 'Francesco Fares.' He's seen Francesco stand in front of it and talk about its history. He remembers the words he used, and how he smiled when whoever was filming him pointed out he'd gotten a date wrong. "He was killed by Diocletian. Clubbed to death, actually. The arrows thing happened before that."

Francesco seems impressed, but not completely pleased. "Do you know anything else about him?"

"He's a gay icon," he says before he can regret it. In his head, the words echo throughout the church. "Or something like that."

Francesco smiles, but for real, this time. "Why do you think that is?"

"Just look at him."

He actually takes a second to look at the painting, as if he didn't know it well enough already. "What? Because he's naked? Or because he's hot?"

"Because he's in pain," Martino says. Those are Francesco's words, or what he remembers of them. "But pain and pleasure are not that different if you think about it."

"And do you?" Francesco asks, moving closer. "Think about it, I mean."

They're standing face to face, their noses almost touching. Martino can feel the warmth of Francesco's breath on his lips. He could just say, "Yes."

He could.

He doesn't.

"He's also the patron saint against the plague, I think," he says instead, those stolen world coming out as little more than whispers. "So during the 80s—"

He doesn't finish that sentence, because Francesco is kissing him. It's little more than a peck, but, in more ways than one, it's enough.

And then it's Martino who's kissing Francesco, and then Francesco is kissing him back, and then Martino gets it. He really, actually, properly gets it. Because as Francesco's tongue slides into his mouth, as he finds himself with his back against a marble column and Francesco's body pressed against his, he feels the arrows tearing into his flesh. He feels them burn as they tear through skin and muscle and break his bones. He feels that kind of cold that he imagines people feel right before they die. He feels it all: the pain, the pleasure, the peace.


End file.
